


The Cellist

by sobefarrington



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobefarrington/pseuds/sobefarrington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An old little ficlet that took me forever to find.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Cellist

**Author's Note:**

> An old little ficlet that took me forever to find.

The night had been long and trying had a sigh of relief washed over her as she entered her tiny apartment.

 

Her performance had been less than impressive and she disappointed herself at every turn. Granted, breaking a string on her cello just before her solo was a setback, not having adequate time to tune it once it was repaired was her downfall.

 

She played as best she could, but fought tirelessly with the piece of music she was given and the orchestra that surrounded her.

 

She had been good once, some would have said great, but that had been before she met him.

 

Phil.  
She thought of him again, pulling the black patent leather pumps from her aching feet and letting them fall into a pile as they would, heading for the couch at the far end of the living room.

 

Phil Coulson.

 

She had been in New York City taking a part in a music exchange program with the city when she met him. Naturally, she had thought he was a mid-level city council member. He appeared so unassuming.

She noticed him from his third row seat, smiling naturally to the sound of the orchestra, sitting with his eyes closed for most of the performance. She watched him when she could, noticing how absorbed he was in the sound, how he moved with every ebb and followed through with the flow. 

She remembered the feeling that washed over her at that moment. When she knew she had to meet him. She was all the more enamored when she finally did.

 

He had introduced himself simply as Phil. No titles or last names, at least not at that moment. During their eight months together she did learn of both, but that night, he was just Phil.

 

She picked up on things quickly, her mind a brilliant palace of understanding. She would be upset when he had to run off and attend to business, but she understood. She was patient and caring and beautiful. Things Phil had admired about her. He was protective, gentle and honest. Qualities she had been looking for for quite a while.

 

She regretted having to break it off. Though they had been having a good time, it wasn't leading to where she wanted it to go. Phil wasn't going to settle down and have a family, raise babies in Portland with her. She would never wake on a Saturday to find him playing in the living room with their kids, or having neighborhood barbeques. He would be off saving the world while she cooked Christmas dinner. She didn't want that.

 

Making the decision to return to Portland once her exchange was nearing its end was a difficult one, but she managed. Neither one shed a tear when they parted ways at Grand Central Station. Phil too stubborn to cry in public and she waiting until the train pulled away. It had hurt, but she thought she would recover.

 

That was six months ago. And things only seemed to be getting worse.

 

The Philharmonic bumped her salary when she returned to Portland, her reviews being outstanding while she was in New York and her talent having been missed while she was away. They had been glad to have her back. But her performance was in a slow decline, as the joy that once warmed her heart and allowed her hands to move with grace faded into a blackness that tensed her muscles and froze her hands on more than one occasion.

 

Her band mates regretted her return, and the people who funded the orchestra were pushing for her departure.

 

She thought about calling him. Going back to New York. Hoping he was still there when she returned, but she thought it unlikely. He was hardly there when she was there the first time. And she would have been heartbroken if she had gone and he'd found someone else.

 

Sitting on the couch in her little black dress, she reached for the remote and turned on CNN. The world had been at war the last few days and she was half hoping the troubles of a planet would make hers seem petty.

 

Anderson Cooper had been filling in the public on the Tesseract. A cube of infinite power than had been stolen by a madman. She half smiled at the Doctor Who reference that fluttered through her mind and continued with Anderson's voice, following along with his story.

 

The bunker where the Tesseract had been housed was demolished. Some agents lost in the collapse. Anderson was mourning the men and women who perished with a speech about bravery and patriotism when he cut to a pre-assembled memorial to those that were lost.

 

The faces and names weren't familiar to her, but she felt the pain. Men and women in their prime, who served the nation and the planet, taken from their friends and family before they were due. Most of the names she'd never heard. Most of the faces she'd never seen.

 

Except One.

 

Agent Phil Coulson.

 

He was listed among those who were lost to the war. His face appearing briefly in a montage of photos. Heroes, Anderson called them more than once. Brave.

 

She cried without knowing, the tears leaving permanent tracks on her cheeks, running down to her chin, droplets splattering her fancy dress.

 

A Hero, most certainly.

 

Agent Phil Coulson.

 

Or as she chose to remember him, Phil.

 

The man with the warm smile who watched the orchestra with his eyes closed.

 

The man she loved with regret.


End file.
